Mount Zion Pentecostal Church: - Sunday Devine Worship

Cullayne POV

A week later; Jamaica.

The woman who marched along the length of the rostrum was a sight to behold. Sweat ran down her oval face as she shouted reverentially in praise. She was clad in a black taffeta dress with champagne piping its matching Ankara scarf head wrap now sat on the podium. Her dancing feet were covered in champagne suede Wallabee cups.

As she danced to the praise and worship song, the packed church reverberated with the intensity of her vibrant spirituality. Mrs. Lamais Cyan was a powerhouse who had been blazing her light for the lost souls, the tattered and battered warriors who needed replenishing, and those who needed a little more oil in their lamp to blaze, for over 26 years.

Lamais, the renowned reader woman, headed the Mount Zion Pentecostal Church in Whitehouse Westmoreland. She established three branches in two adjoining communities, and the other in Ontario, Canada. She was a woman who was both hated and loved, as she had fought through family betrayal, church rivalry, unadulterated jealousy, and envious propaganda. But as she was not a typical woman, she was a God-fearing reader woman who devoted herself to fulfilling her purpose until her time had ended.

Lamais was the pillar of strength, a devoted wife, and a loving and nonsensical woman. Infused with all this was a bounty of kindness that extended boundaries and borders and she is my mother.

I tightly gripped the backrest of the pew in front of me, my knuckles turning white as a mix of awe and fear built up inside me. How could I possibly measure up to this woman whose legacy I was expected to carry on, like an Olympic athlete holding high their flaming torch as they race towards victory?

I closed my eyes, trying to block out the overwhelming feeling of dread that surrounded me. All of my shortcomings seemed to come to the forefront of my mind, making me shake with uncertainty. It felt like I was sinking deeper and deeper into a pit of despair.

I listened as praises rang like loud symbols as the congregation lent their voices to the musical instruments and in the midst of it loud and clear was Lamais' booming voice bellowing.

"Shout purpose!!"

"Purppppossseeee!"

"Open up yuh mout an shout purrppoossseee!!"

"Purppoosseeeee!"

The Holy Spirit's presence was felt as sinners, believers, and converts were consumed by its power. Some fell to the ground in its glory as others shook and spoke in tongues.

Tears streamed down my face as I battled with my purpose. I felt like I carried a curse. There was more to me than just being my mother's daughter with the same gift. Though I possessed my mother's ability to read people, I yearned for more.

I thought I was on track to achieving my dreams, but my world fell apart when I caught my fiancé with his head embedded between my best friend thighs. Now, I am back in Jamaica, feeling empty and broken, with no direction to carry on my mother's legacy.

I felt lost and unsure of my purpose now that Taylon was with Malika. In a few months, she would become the church mother of Sungrove Pentecostal Missionary Church as they were getting married in December.

She had taken over a role that I believed was meant for me. In a way, she had stolen my sense of purpose.

O God why me? Why did you let her take my purpose away? I questioned silently.

"Glory Hallelujah...."

"Yesss Jeeeezzzaazzzzz...."

"Wooiieeeeee, hhhmmmm.... Thank you, Jesus!"

The praises continued to fill the hall but gradually became quieter as my mother stood on the rostrum mike grip firmly in her hand and stared into the congregation.

Through tear-blurred eyes, I look at her my heart heavy my spirit broken. I felt my body pricked with pinpricks of emotions as her eyes found me and my father's strong hand pulled me into the warmth of his comforting side.

"The songwriter said,

... Empty and broken
I came back to him
Vessel unworthy
So scared with sin
But he did not despair
He started over again
I bless the day
He didn't throw the clay away

Shout purpossseeeee!"

My tears were now a river as they sprang from my eyes.

".... Over and over
He moulds me
And makes me
Into his likeness
He fashioned the clay
Vessel of honour
I am today
All because Jesus
Didn't throw the clay away

A wondah if onuh understand weh mi a seh?"

Her eyes travelled the congregation before she continued.

"Loose mi Jesus!" she said prayerfully before continuing. "Yuh purpose is still there it nuh change because yuh stumble. The circumstances might change and the situation no longer the same but Daddy Jesus...

... He is the potter
I am the clay
Moulded in his image
He wants me to stay
When I stumble and fall
And my vessel break
He just picks up the pieces
He didn't throw the clay away

With a rousing and captivating mezzo-soprano, her voice filled the conference hall. It became a rousing rendition as the song was accompanied by the church band and more so as the congregation joined in.

Over and over
He moulds me
And makes me
Into his likeness
He fashioned the clay
Vessel of honour
I am today
All because Jesus
Didn't throw the clay away

Vessel of honour
I am today...
All because Jesus didn't throw the clay away...

I pressed into the comfort of my father's side as I tried my utmost best to accept my purpose. It was still there waiting to be fulfilled even if it was all broken and shrouded in the pain of my rejection to let the will for my life be fulfilled.

I mumbled the last stanza of the song like a mantra.

Vessel of honour
I am today...
All because Jesus didn't throw the clay away...

I hoped that I could take comfort in the words and use them as a stepping stone to accepting I was indeed a clay still in God's hand being fashioned for my grand purpose but when I looked towards my mother again I felt myself waver with doubt.